In a misty bamboo grove, the body of a murdered samurai is found by a woodsman who alerts the police. In the investigation that follows, seven mutually compelling but contradictory testimonies are given, and only one—delivered through a medium by the vengeful spirit of the dead man himself—contains a complete, coherent story whose factuality is compatible with reality.

So goes one of the most repercussive short stories in all of Japanese literature, "In a Grove" by Rynosuke Akutagawa. The chilling takeaway is, of course, that in criminal trials, the spirits of the dead do not testify, and the stories of eyewitnesses can bear all the hallmarks of genuineness without containing a single grain of truth.

However, in the trial of Troy Davis, who was convicted for the 1989 murder of police officer Mark MacPhail in Savannah, Ga., the testimonies of eyewitnesses carried the burden of an entire case. No murder weapon, incriminating fingerprints or any DNA evidence that indicated guilt on Davis' part was ever recovered. The State of Georgia presented a number of witnesses who claimed that Davis was responsible for the crime. Some of these witnesses were allegedly present at the scene, and others stated that Davis had confessed his guilt to them.

The testimonies of the witnesses varied widely. Some individuals were only able to commit to having seen someone in a white T-shirt and blue shorts at the scene. Others claimed that they had overheard conversations had by Davis that incriminated him, and some said that he had confessed the crime to them personally—though their renditions of the confession varied. Among those testifying against Davis included another man suspected of being guilty of the murder, his former cellmate and a man who later claimed he had been threatened by the police.

Is it possible to imagine problems with testimony given by someone who might otherwise be convicted of the crime, someone who stands to gain from cooperating with a police investigation due to their position in the judicial system and someone who has been threatened by the same police present in the courtroom? Is it entirely sensible, reasonable and fair for a police department that has just lost a fellow officer to investigate that very crime?

Obviously, the trial of Troy Davis was unfair, as the trials of black people in the Deep South tend to be. After all, multiple studies have confirmed that a defendant is many times more likely to receive the death penalty if he is black.

Even if, by some amazing cosmic coincidence, Davis was guilty of the murder of MacPhail, his death illustrates what the death penalty serves to do as an institution: It carries out the darker machinations of human grief, anger and fear. It is now what the lynchings of the Deep South's yesteryear were—crowd-pleasing catharses for a society that barely conceals its barbarism.

Less than a century ago, towns in the South would congregate in their entirety to witness the murder of alleged criminals, and it seems that the murder of Troy Davis was enjoyed no less by those associated with the trial in the present. Currently, the memorial page dedicated to Mark MacPhail features comments such as "I'm so happy that the murderer has been put to death for this young Police Officer's death," and "This Officer died protecting people & the killer is made out to be a victim. It's disgusting."

Most comments merely praise the final delivery of "justice." Counter-protesters in support of Davis' execution gathered at the prison to cheer the murder on, mostly citing support of justice and MacPhail's memory. The sheer publicity of Davis' death is a testament to the remains of a Southern lynch mentality, an ideology whose counterpart in the justice system will doubtlessly continue to deliver victims for future executions.

I believe that lynchings correspond to prejudiced attitudes that are imposed socially and carried out to an extreme. What is "lynch-like" about the life and death of Troy Davis is that a contingent of people were very interested in seeing it, even going so far as to appear at the prison itself on the day of the execution. Though the counterprotests in favor of the execution of Davis were minor compared to the protests against it, this only proves that attitudes supportive of lynching have dwindled, not disappeared, and even a little desire to see someone killed is too much.

Both of the major problems with the murder of Troy Davis—the botched trial and public execution—point to the problem with the death penalty itself: People are imperfect. We lie, we fear, we forget, we misremember. We are fallible even when we are striving to do the right thing. No government made therefore, be entrusted with the power to end human lives.